only saw the bit that happened just beyond the dining room archway. A cave-in that smashed the table flat against the floor, disintegrated the chairs and buried it all under a pile of wood and stucco. Through the thick fog of dust, he saw sunlight shining down on the heaped debris. He muttered, 'Holy fucking shit.' He thought, I'd better get my butt out of here now. He pictured himself making a detour on his way to the door. Scooping Mother out of her wheelchair and running with her, dodging this way and that as sundered support slammed down. Getting out the door and clear of the house even as the rest of it crashed down. Quit thinking about it and DO it. But what if leave her? What if leave her and the house falls down? Wouldn't that be a fucking pity? let's just get my own ass out of here - and quick. As he leaned forward and shoved his heels against the footrest, the quake stopped. The end of the roar left a great silence. Mixed in with the silence were quiet sounds. Stanley heard the house creaking as its motions subsided. He heard the distant wow-wow-wow of car and house alarms. Somewhere far off, dogs were barking. His mother's wheelchair was silent. So was her voice. He looked at her. She sat motionless, still hunkered over, head down, hands still clutching the push rims of her wheelchair.
'Mother?' Stanley asked. She didn't move. 'Mother, are you all right?'
Stanley raised himself out of the chair. 'Mother?'
She lifted her head. White powder and flakes drifted off her hair and shoulders as she sat up. Her pink-framed glasses hung crooked on her face. She straightened them. She blinked at Stanley. Her chin was trembling. Spittle had dribbled down from her mouth, cutting moist streaks through the plaster dust. In a shaky, piping voice, she said, 'It's over?’
'It's over,' Stanley told her. He went to her.
'What ever will we do now?’
'Nothing to worry about,' Stanley said. He crouched beside her wheelchair and picked up a bit of plaster the size of a flagstone. He hefted it overhead. He could see by the look in her eyes that she suddenly knew what was coming.
'Stanley!'
She cringed away and started to bring up arm. The good, heavy slab of plaster broke the top of her head. It made a thuck. She made an 'Hunhf-' Her glasses hopped down to the tip of her nose, but didn't fall off. Stanley held on to half the plaster slab. The slab bounced off Mother's right shoulder and dropped to the floor. She sat very still for a moment. Stanley raised his slab. While he considered whether or not to hit her again, her head slumped down. Slowly, she leaned forward. Her arms fell. They punched her skirt, making a narrow valley between her thighs. She leaned farther and farther as if hoping to peer down over her knees and find something wonderful her chair. Stanley stepped back and watched. She leaned so far forward that her knuckles brushed the debris on the floor. Then her rump lifted off the seat. Her head thumped the floor. She did a clumsy, crooked somersault that showed off more of her gray pantyhose than Stanley cared to see. Her legs came down straight and fast. The heels of her shoes exploded glass shards from the demolished window. She bucked as if trying to sit up, then down again and lay still. Stanley gave her hip a tap with the toe of his moccasin.
'Mother? Mother, are you all right?' She didn't stir. She didn't answer. He gave her a good solid kick. The blow shook her, wobbled her and he saw blood trickling out of her ear. 'That's a bad sign,' he said, and couldn't help but laugh. Then his laughing stopped. What killed it was the thought that Sheila Banner might be crushed beneath the rubble of her home.
***
One minute before the quake hit, Clint Banner glanced at his empty coffee mug. It was emblazoned with a portrait of Cogburn from True Grit. A birthday present from Barbara, who liked to insist that Clint looked